


An Obituary- For A Father, By A Son

by eternallamppost



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: 'canon is loosely defined and i am here to define it', F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, i don't follow comics any more so this is probably as far from canon as you're gonna get, not like a defined AU but more, very old batman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternallamppost/pseuds/eternallamppost
Summary: Death is coming for Bruce Wayne. Dick Grayson summarizes.





	1. declaration

**Author's Note:**

> Hey- this is pretty obviously about Batman's death. It won't be violent, and it won't be gory, but it will happen. This fic is probably going to land more on 'sappy' than 'edgy'. I hope you enjoy it.

bruce wayne has spent his final days writing.

final days, here, does not mean days- i do not know how much longer he will live.

it may be hours. it may be months. but bruce wayne is dying, and he is spending his time writing.

please, if you are reading this, be kind- to the author and his subjects.

my brother is a writer- he holds a master's degree in journalism, and has published multiple novels- one fiction, three non.

i am a circus freak. i do not have his eloquence, and backflips will not serve me here.

 

i asked bruce, once- why? - roughly a month ago

(he had been writing for two months by then)

he smiled, shuffling a few papers around. his fingers, thick and long, stayed bowed,

still catching up with his mind.

"these people-" his voice is heavy- he can do any number of things with it, i know-

but when he spoke to me at that moment his voice was heavy, and soft-

burdened by the weight of honesty.

"these people ought to know who we are, and tell that we were here."

he chuckled, dryly. "it helps. you should try it."

 

i am trying it.

 

\---

 

"these people ought to know who we are, and tell that we were here", you may or may not know

is a quote from a comic strip called Little Nemo In Slumberland

about a young boy who goes on magical adventures, and always wakes up at the end of the strip from his dream

i did not read it in this comic strip. i do not know if bruce did.

sometimes, i think i want to wake up. i think it would be better to wake up in the circus again

and for bruce wayne to be alive. certainly, it would be better for Gotham-

our great city and the world could both use several more generations of bruce wayne.

 

 

of course, if you are reading this, you think to yourself,

"who are you, sir? it is common knowledge that bruce wayne was a generous man,

an intellectual and a gentleman. he funded dozens of orphanages, and cancer wards, and nursing homes,

and his father built the subway system. who among us can truly say bruce wayne did not touch our lives?"

you are right, of course, and i thank you for wording your question so politely.

 

still, the fact is that bruce wayne was a father to me- in a way he was almost certainly not to you.

bruce wayne raised me- he saved my life hundreds of time. he saved your life, my friend-

maybe in an alley, and maybe from a tired man with a gun

and maybe in another dimension, and maybe from the great demon king Trigon

bruce wayne raised me the way he raised my brother, who determined that which eluded all of gotham when he was nine years old

bruce wayne raised me the way he raised my sister, who at 17 was collecting a pension from lex luthor himself

bruce wayne raised me quietly- he raised me in shadows, and he raised me in training dojos, and he raised me to fight.

 

if you have not deduced it yet, allow me to clarify, my friend and accomplice,

bruce wayne was batman. bruce wayne protected gotham, and bruce wayne protected the world,

and i am watching him die.

 


	2. explanation, elaboration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, thanks if you're still reading this! i'm not really sure exactly how this is gonna go- it'll be a little long bc the format is easy for me to write in.  
> i promise i didn't put the harleyxivy tag there to bait you- both characters are coming and they're very gay- i don't know when but it'll happen and if that changes i'll remove the tag. no queerbaiting here friends

i sat with my brother, one night, before i called him that

we had been out- doing the things we do, which you, having read the previous section of this piece,

will know is a reference to enacting violence upon the criminal element of our fair gotham

it may have helped the atmosphere if one or both of us had been smoking a cigarette, or even a joint

we did not- bruce would have killed us (metaphorically, obviously) if he had found us smoking

 

i said to my brother, "it's a little....unbelievable, isn't it?"

my brother looked at me, confused.

"what we do, i mean- every night, out with him." i chuckled. "him, out with aliens and amazonians fighting gods and monsters.

it's a little ridiculous, isn't it?" my brother nodded, and sat for a minute. my brother is more intelligent than i am, and he talks more-

but he is never afraid to weigh his words.

"i had to read a lot in school. i always liked fantasy- giant monsters and giant heroes. but it's different, out there." he paused.

"i met superman, you know? i met the martian freakin' manhunter. i don't...it's hard to read, any more. did you ever read?"

i shook my head. "you should read beowulf." he said. "you'd like it. it's about a man- a warrior, and a king, but a man."

 

i did like beowulf. i liked beowulf a lot. i liked the ending.

i liked that the big monster at the end was a woman-more than that a mother, mourning her son.

i liked that in the end, beowulf's wits did not save him. he was strong, and rich, and he had the loyalty of thousands,

and when he killed grendel's mother it was not because he was strong, or because he was rich, or because of the thousands

it was because someone a long time ago, dropped a magic sword in a cave.

i don't think i will read beowulf for a while.

 

\---

bruce wayne has been writing.

he is old, and his bones creak, and the click-clack-click of his keyboard is the soundtrack to my life

in this impossibly old, impossibly large house.

it's caretaker, one Alfred Pennyworth, the closest thing to a grandfather i ever had, died many years ago.

i do what i can, here and there.

 

i have read every word, of course- bruce's senses are sharp, but they are not what they used to be

even so, i am not sure he cares if i know what he writes.

he keeps his notebooks in several filing cabinets, unmarked with single padlocks- easily picked.

they are seperated by subject- bruce wayne is old, but he is efficient.

these subjects are People, Events, and Thoughts.

 

People is not light reading- here bruce wayne catalogues every one he ever knew.

myself. my brothers. jason. pamela. crane. harleen. azrael. al' ghul. frieze.

page upon page of intensive notes- background, fighting styles, emotional traumas,

favorite foods, wedding anniversaries, favorite colors, favorite songs. anything and everything.

under People, bruce wayne has also described in detail dozens of identities he himself crafted

for various reasons- he engaged in many counts of espionage. here, he has written entire life stories

all fake. there are two pages in People left blank- they are marked Bruce Wayne, and Batman, respectively.

 

Events is a good deal more engaging, i found- bruce wayne's life has been nothing if not interesting.

here bruce wayne recounts in painfully accurate detail every battle, every conversation, every monologue

here are the batman's greatest hits in 29 leatherbound notebooks for the world to see.

where the world, of course, is me.

 

Thoughts i do not read- i could not finish it. this cabinet contains a mere three notebooks, in tight, neat letters

here are the things too abstract. here is bruce wayne- and not batman. here are the things bruce wayne feels

the things he wishes he had said. the things he still has time to say, but will not. the things he wishes he could take back.

here is the loss of one Jason Todd- a brutal, thunderstrike of a boy forced into a man by a chair and a crowbar.

here is the loss of one Alfred Pennyworth- "the greatest man who ever lived, and to whom I owe everything".

here is one Thomas and Martha Wayne- kind, and loving, and gone.

here is one Dick Grayson- "who made me love again."

 

i wonder if he knows what i have read- i wonder if he looks at me different when i bring him dinner,

knowing how much he regrets. knowing exactly how much he hurts.

i know i look at him differently- how could i not?

 

i do not know, yet, if i will publish this. after all, once bruce wayne dies,

i will be the one of maybe three people who guard his identity yet.

once bruce wayne dies, the batman will too- and people ought to know who we was, and what he did here.

 

 

 


	3. visitors, the first of many

a woman came to see my father, in black and white

the morning was fresh- six, maybe seven hours old 

when ms. kyle brought a pizza, and a briefcase, and a smile

we shared the pizza, the three of us- my father, the cat, and myself

it was greasy, and barely warm, and delicious.

 

the briefcase contained some old photos- polaroids in binders

photos of my father as a young man. i was in some of them.

"i knew-well, i thought-" ms kyle pursed wrinkled lips together, flustered,

and i thought about how beautiful she was, even now,

"i thought you might be doing some archiving. things being how they are,

and i wanted you to have these. they're copies, of course, but- they may be of use to you.

there's one or two of him."

 

my father thanked her, his voice darkened by her presence

he was tense around her- guarded, and cautious,

they had fought- and they had loved,

and i was not sure which of these scared him more.

 

a second woman came, the next day,

taller and broader than ms. kyle, hair dark red like autumn and wine,

and she brought a flower and a kiss- one for my father, and one for me

"brew three petals into a tea." she told my father,

red lips to his ear as if i would not hear

"it'll make things easier, when you need them to be."

 

this upset me, and i sat silent for the rest of her visit.

"how is our associate?" my father asked her, the hint of a smile on her lips

"she misses him. she wishes she didn't." mrs. isley smiled, and sighed.

"i think we all do, in some way, but her most of all. the things he said

and did to her are unimaginable, and she still cries sometimes. but,"

she smiled wide, proud, happy, beautiful,

"she moved in with me, and its helped us both. the flowers love her,

and she understands them. they both want to survive- more than

most people, they want to thrive and live in their own way."

 

my father wiped away a tear. i have seen him cry more in the last month

than i saw him cry my entire life.

"i don't miss him. how many lives ruined? harleen's, and countless others.

how many killed? how many hurt?" he stopped. and scowled, and thought.

"how could i miss him? how insane would i have to be-" he stopped

pamela smiled. "how insane would we all be, bruce?"

i spoke, interrupting and not caring, "he would have loved to hear you say that."

they both chuckled, and it was not funny.

 

a third woman came, today, pink and blue stripes

fading from long blonde hair, a pink and blue rose in her lapel.

she was smaller, and younger, and stronger than the other two

and she was happy to see me. her voice was as bubbly as i remembered,

if not more so.  
  


"i'm so glad you're here to take care of your old man!" she said in between hugs,

her accent still thick. new jersey? new york? i never could tell.

"i hope you don't mind i stopped by. when ivy said you were here, i knew i had to come visit."

this was a lie, of course- but i appreciated it. the good doctor quinzel was there for my father,

to speak of their shared lover. i just happened to open the door, and ever conscious of the people

around her, the good doctor took it on herself to treat me-

laughter, and affection, and smiles.

this should not be interpreted as a complaint- she lifted my spirits immediately, and i was ever grateful.

 

she brought my father a gun- complete with stick, flag, and Bang! sticker.

"thought you might want a souvenir." she said, her smile a little sad.

my father took it- he appeared to weigh it, momentarily.

"thank you, harley." he said. "harleen." he corrected.

"whatever, honey." she said, and sat next to him at his writing desk. he turned to face her.

"ivy told me what you said yesterday. i wanted to come talk."

 

my father nodded. i saw him tense, saw his fingers twitch, and it occured to me

that he was afraid he had hurt her.

"you're right." she said, softly. "i know he was a bad man. i'm not stupid."

"i don't think you're-" "oh of course you do!" she interrupted him.

"and why wouldn't you? i stood by him for so long. i have a goddamn

degree in psychology and couldn't recognize a basic fucking abuse cycle."

she wiped her nose. "you don't know what it was like, bats. you don't know how beautiful and...and how

persuasive he was."

 

he waited for her to speak, and when she didn't, he spoke.

"i do know, harley." he reached out, hesitating- and then put his hand on her knee.

"i mean- we didn't have that kind of relationship. but...he thrilled me. he spent his entire life

trying to get me to laugh, to have fun, when the truth was that i already had. i could have- maybe even should

have killed him in the beginning. but matching wits with him? truly and honestly battling someone on that level?

it was addictive. he...he had an addictive personality- in that we were addicted to him."

the good doctor looked up at him, and i watched her eyes meet his- wide, and wet,

and she fell crying into his arms.

 

i do not know how long she stayed there. i left them alone,

and fell asleep, and when i woke the next morning she had left me a note-

'thx again love. call if u get lonely. xoxoxo'

i thought about a christmas carol- a cat for the past, a flower for the present, and a heart for the future-

but the flower and heart were in the wrong order. they probably did that on purpose.


	4. inquisition

once, during a particularly long and dreary holiday season

my father encountered a zombie

he spoke in rhyme, mostly repeating his biblical name

and proved a challenge- he was huge, probably eight feet or taller,

legs like tree trunks and a barrel chest.

 

my father intruded on him, on accident- and later apologized

with a fresh-cooked meal. he explained to me, that he had hurt solomon

rather badly, and in his own home, and that's the kind of thing one should apologize for.

i did not need to apologize to solomon- but when i visited him,

i brought food anyway. i liked to cook, and i wanted him to sit with me a while.

 

he tore into a ham shank voraciously, old teeth carving into soft pink meat.

(i'd coated the ham in brown sugar, ground mustard, and cloves before cooking it

in pineapple juice and lemon-lime soda. it's my brother's favorite, and solomon

appeared to be enjoying it as well.)

i let him eat for a solid half-hour, my dirty nails tapping softly

on the concrete of the sewer floor. when he finished, i posed my question.

 

"you can't die, correct? or-" i saw solomon shake his head, and corrected myself.

"you come back, when you die." he nodded. "what's it like? being dead, i mean."

solomon looked at me- appearing deep in thought, and then he shrugged.

"hurt, for a bit. then not so much." i sighed. "first time, saw someone. pretty lady."

i looked up at him, eyes wide. "knew her, once. nice to see." his brow furrowed,

and he wiped a tear on his ragged vest. "wish i had stay."

i brought him another meal, the next week- but i did not stay.

 

an old man visited my father, and i was irritated at his presence.

his dark goatee was sharp at the end and sides, shaved into perfect points,

i did not remember how old he was- three hundred, or four. he looked a little older than i.

(he had aged gracefully, i think. my hair is long, and thin and greasy, and i have gone soft

on the stomach and hips. my face is perpetually long, but the old man's is short and sharp)

i knew what he had to say. i knew my father would not hear him.

 

he came in, anyway- he sat with my father at the dinner table. they broke bread,

literally- i baked a loaf and they broke it- the old man insisted.

'Allow me to make it right.' the old man said, his voice heavy and rough.

'You tried to make it right with Jason.' my father said, without hesitation.

'That is what I must make right, Bruce.' he said. 'Mr. Todd was dead when he entered the pit. You live yet.'

My father was already shaking his head. 'It would work for you, Bruce. You could have another life yet.'

'You could take over the League.'

 

My father stood up, his chair falling behind him. 'What.' he said.

it wasn't a question. it was a statement of shock.

The old man sighed. 'We are very much alike, Mr. Wayne. I lived long before you, and yet

I have felt myself age with you. I am ready to retire. You are, and I mean no flattery,

the only person who could ever be a worthy successor to me.'

'The League of Shadows is an assassin's organization. I won't train killers.'

'Then change it.' the old man said, as my father sat down again. for a man about to

give away his life's work, i thought, he seemed very casual.

'no one would dare deny you, once they knew who you are. you'll have generations of young people

carrying out your legacy. the lazarus pit could keep Batman around for another thousand years, and how many

dozens of young wards could you train in that time?'

 

My father tapped his fork on the hard wood table, and shook his head.

'You're very kind, Ra's Al Ghul. But I have killed enough 'young wards'."

"You didn't kill me." I said, speaking up for the first time. My father looked at me,

shocked, and he was about to speak when I continued. "Maybe you should consider it. People have

been hurt, doing what we do, but lives have been saved. Lives have been changed, Bruce." i fought

against the hot sting of tears in my eyes. "Mine. Tim's. Barbara's. Even Jason's. Ask him, and I know

if he could go back and stop himself from meeting you, he wouldn't. People got hurt, yeah, but

we loved it. You could make a real difference here, and...and I know you're ready to die." My father looked taken aback,

and i was as surprised as him to hear myself say it. "I know you don't want to use the pit, but..this is a huge opportunity."

 

Ra's al Ghul looked at me, a hint of a smile on his face coupled with something like pride.

"I'll think about it." my father said, with a tone implying he wouldn't. "I'll think about it."


End file.
